Real War Games Inc.

By Michelle Hamilton

I was on a bus full of sociopaths. The trouble was I had volunteered to be here. Had I only known, I lamented for the hundredth time since I’d boarded this small bus emblazoned with the Real War Games Inc. logo at the Denver International Airport, I never would have gotten off my plane from New York, never would have registered online six months ago, never would have followed through with this harebrained idea in the first place. But I had, thinking that somehow I would be able to understand, to discover the answer to the question that had begun to consume me more than a year ago when my twin brother had died in Iraq: What need had driven Brian to join the army — a decision that had resulted in his death? So I was here in order to understand. And hopefully find some way of moving on with my life. Although I couldn’t imagine how to that without Brian. But somehow instead I’d ended up not on a bus with the other participants in this game but with sociopaths. Where had I gone wrong?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312798182

Book preview

Real War Games Inc.

Real War Games Inc.

Michelle Hamilton

Dragonfly Media Publishing

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Dragonfly Media Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Dragonfly Media Publishing,

Dragonfly-Publishing.com

Cover photos: iStockphoto.com

First printing: December 2014

ISBN: 978-1-312-79818-2

Printed in the United States of America

Published in Canada

ISBN:

To You

For having the courage to see what truly is.

Also by Michelle Hamilton:

Child of Chaos

The Sleeping Assassin

Windigo

Chapter 1

I was on a bus full of sociopaths.

The need for stimulation, lack of shame or remorse, irresponsibility — they all showed classic indicators, I thought as I squirmed deeper into my seat near the back. The tall, heavily-muscled one — Brad, I remembered (I was good with names) — stood and, with a war cry, pulled a hunting knife and whipped it into the floor. I tried to muffle my gasp of horror. That he’d done this was bad enough. But the knife embedded near the foot of the shorter, wiry woman with hair in thin, streaming braids tied back under a Harley kerchief.

Yep, I confirmed as I tried not to watch the resulting fight between the mammoth man and biker woman. Sociopaths.

The trouble was I had volunteered to be here.

I lamented for the hundredth time since I’d boarded this small bus emblazoned with the Real War Inc. logo at the Denver International Airport. Had I only known, I never would have gotten off my plane from New York, never would have registered online six months ago, and never would have followed through with this harebrained idea in the first place.

But I had.  Somehow I thought I would be able to understand, to discover the answer to the question that had begun to consume me more than a year ago when my twin brother had died in Iraq: What need had driven Brian to join the army — a decision that had killed him?

I was a questioner by nature and trade. A fact-checker for the upstanding New York Journal Life magazine in New York City, I was paid — perhaps not very well — to discover the answers. And so using my methodological mind, I ventured into weekend warrior-type war games in the hopes of understanding better.

Channeling all of my grief, all of my pain for the loss of my only sibling, I had begun a basic training regimen modeled after the boot camp Brian would have experienced. I’d taught myself about war and the theories behind what I considered to be one of the most heinous needs of human kind. Using the Internet and then practicing at shooting ranges, I’d taught myself about weapons and how they are used. I’d learned how to fight and about the strategies of war. All of it brought me to this point, aboard the bus that would take me to my first simulated war experience. In order to understand. And hopefully find some way of moving on with my life.

Although I couldn’t imagine how to do that without Brian.

But somehow I seemed to have veered off course. Somehow I’d ended up not on a bus with the other participants in this game but with sociopaths.

Where had I gone wrong?

My train of thought was cut short.

Why don’t you ask the new girl?

Uh oh, I grimaced inwardly as I tried to make myself smaller on the bus’s vinyl chair, that’s me. It sounded like teacher’s pet or nerd. I’d been both. The shorter man with the slicked-back hair and darting eyes had asked the question in a bored voice. Nick, I remembered. He’d been indifferent when I’d gathered my courage and introduced myself to the group of four strangers waiting in the designated location at the airport. After brief hellos, I’d learned that all four were strangers to me but not each other. Where this was my first time playing in one of these six-day wilderness games, they had been doing it for more than three years. They greeted each other like family.

Nick had informed me at the airport that it had been a fluke really that I was even here in the first place. I recalled my first conversation with Nick while we were waiting for our bags at the luggage carousel.

Who are you here with? He’d asked me somewhat distantly, his eyes focused on the little luggage on-ramp. I’d thought at first he’d been joking.

Nobody, I’d mumbled, choking a bit in my sentence. I thought that was clear when I’d introduced myself.

He’d laughed at that.

Not a chance. Everybody registers in groups of six. Looks like you’ll be playing this one alone.

Not this time, someone behind me spoke up. "Didn’t you hear? Sandra broke her leg. Real War Inc. directors slotted her into squad 91. She’s a Dark Knight, baby."

I finally had Nick’s attention, horrified though it was.

They hadn’t looked impressed when they’d met me at the airport. It was hard to look impressive when you were five foot three inches, had the physique of a fairy and tended to blend into the background. I gave them that. But I knew I was pretty good with both the M4 carbine standard issue assault rifle and the M40 sniper rifle and had the endurance of camel. Well, perhaps a pony. Okay, maybe a small rabbit. But they could go the distance, right?

I tried to pretend I didn’t notice the stares of the others as they focused on me.

Hey, New Girl, Brad called in an arrogant voice only the really fit and beautiful could manage. You got an iPod transmitter? Asshole here won’t lend me his ‘cause he’s afraid I’ll break it. The frat-boy-turned-Rambo thumbed at Nick who simply raised a thin eyebrow in his direction.

Her name’s Molly, the fourth member of the squad, Tanya, spoke quietly. She’d also been the one to inform Nick of my status at the airport. Like last time, she didn’t need to speak any louder because cold authority rang in her voice. Get it right.

I eyed the back of the black woman’s head — she hadn’t even turned around at the front of the bus to make her order.

Tanya had intimidated me the most. Back at the airport, I at first had been wary of Brad’s intimidating height and college-boy looks. But after he spent thirty seconds dancing his pecs for a high-school girls volleyball team walking by, I realized that he was nothing but a bunch of brawn sewn together with good genes.

Tanya, like Brad, was stunningly gorgeous, but behind the cat-shaped eyes and strong face, I could sense authority, unwavering self-confidence and a strong presence — all of the things I myself lacked. Mixed with the keen intelligence I sensed from the Amazonian, ripped woman, I knew she was the alpha of the group. It didn’t help that I had heard them call her Tanya LeClerk, Queen of Warriors.

Don’t give it to him, Moll. He can’t help but break it with those big hams he calls hands.

The biker girl — Melissa — advised me in her rough Texan drawl which, like her looks, hinted at Latino blood.

Ignore the dyke, Brad retorted, his gaze swinging to Melissa.

The Texan bristled at his words, leaning forward in her seat toward Brad who was across the aisle.

You want another taste of this? She shook her leather and chain-gloved hand in his face. ’Cause I’m happy to give it to you.

"Oh, would you? Would you give it to me, Mel?" Brad mocked, cocking his head to the side and raising his hands suggestively.

Shit head, Nick mumbled as Tanya whipped around in her seat ready to split the two up again.

But it was me, not Tanya, who stopped them, shocking myself as much as them into silence with my quiet voice.

I — I don’t mind, I mumbled as I dug through my bag until I found my transmitter then offered it like a peace offering between Brad and Melissa.

Momentarily off guard, Brad took it and smiled a victorious smile at both Nick and Mel. Thanks, Miss Molly, he said to the group while ignoring me.

I cringed — only Brian had ever called me that and the reminder was a sharp stab to the heart.

No problem, I muttered, glad that I had averted another fight — ironically fighting made me tense — but understanding that’s all I’d done. No friends, yet, I grimaced.

But maybe I was wrong.

Mel stood and, kicking the side of Brad’s foot as she passed, came and sat in the seat next to me.

It’ll be a broken heap of techno crap once you get it back, Mel predicted with a sigh then turned and smiled at me. But Nick’ll be able to fix it again.

Unsure what to say, I simply offered a hesitant smile in reply.

We both watched as Brad sauntered up to the front and without asking permission of the driver inserted the jack into the igniter then tuned the radio to the proper frequency. Heavy rock poured out of the speakers and Brad cranked it up.

Both Mel and I laughed as we watched him throw his head back and shout out the lyrics to Welcome to the Jungle.

He’s such an idiot, Mel laughed. But an absolute maniac in battle. That’s why we keep him. With those few words I could tell the ties went deeper than that. Loyalty. Mel was showing me that although they may fight like brother and sister they were part of the same team. And I wasn’t. Not yet, I amended.

Trying to pick up the thread of conversation, I nodded to Nick who rolled his eyes at Brad and turned back to stare out the window.

So he’s really good with electronics? I asked, hoping to learn more about the people with whom I’d be spending a week.

Mel settled back in her chair, her gangsta-styled braids sliding over her shoulder as she crossed her arms in front of her.

Yeah, a real genius. He’s a high-techer from Seattle, riding the coattails of the social networking thing.

To me, the combination of high-tech geek and weekend warrior didn’t fit.

So, why is he here? Brad, I can understand, I added, looking once again at the six-foot-two tower of muscle now head banging to Nine Inch Nails.

But Mel understood. Ah, so you want to know why we’re all crazy enough to do this year after year.

At my blush and quick denial, Mel simply laughed.

It’s alright. You do have to be a bit crazy to do this, as you know yourself, she looked at me. I averted my eyes. Maybe it was better if they thought I had come out of some need for an adrenaline high or loose nut in my brain, I thought.

To pass the time, Mel continued. Nick likes to play with the gadgets — Raytheon bombs, flash grenades, infrared motion detectors. I mean, where else can you launch grenades and rig out bombs without being arrested?

But, they’re not real grenades and bombs, right? I asked anxiously.

Mel laughed again, a trait I was beginning to like and started to feel myself ease my death grip on my bag and relax.

"No, they’re the Real War Inc. version — flash bombs and light defrags, all meant to interact with our sensors that will tell us and the others our level of injury, or if we’re shit and shipped — dead and out of the game. Mel explained the jargon. He’s good at it, too. He’s also a stubborn little bastard. He can trek it through the mountains for hours loaded with gear and never make a peep."

Not like you, Mel, Nick commented dryly still facing the window, you’re a regular Chatty Cathy.

Smiling around her foul rebuttal, Mel gave him the finger. I thought I glimpsed the corner of his lips tip up.

Trying to diffuse a bit of the aggression, I attempted to get Nick into the conversation as well.

What is ‘Nick’ short for — Nicholas? I couldn’t tell by his appearance. His complexion was slightly swarthy, making me think he had a Mediterranean or Eastern European background; but then he had pale eyes. My question trailed off when he didn’t turn around. But he surprised me by answering.

It’s short for Nick.

Both Brad and Mel laughed while my mouth stupidly formed my answer — oh — even though no sound emerged.

You’re a real sweetheart, Tanya said to Nick still watching the road.

Now Tanya joined on, what, five years ago? Mel continued as though she hadn’t stopped. She directed the question at the Amazon who nodded the affirmative. She did it as extra training for getting onto the force back in D.C. ‘Course, her family is loaded — couldn’t pay for this type of trip on a cop’s salary, eh, Tanya? Mel laughed good-naturedly.

An officer, I thought. That explained her confident presence. There had been a few of them at Brian’s funeral and they’d also exuded that larger-than-life aura.

At the thought of my brother’s death, I shut my mind and switched gears.

Mel was right — the expense of this quest had been steep for me. In fact, it had taken my entire life’s savings to pay for it. Not that it seemed to faze this crew. Money, it appeared, did not seem to be a problem for them.

Sighing, I faced Tanya.

Did you get onto the force then? I asked.

On my third year now, Tanya confirmed looking back at me for the first time. "I keep up with Real War Inc. for the practice — even though there’s not enough blood for my taste." And then she grinned a feral smile.

Sociopaths, I repeated, shrinking backward slightly again.

How ‘bout you, Miss Molly? Brad asked in a half mocking voice. I bristled slightly before I realized that I actually hadn’t heard him speak without that tone.

Research. I bit off the word before I could keep it in. Research? I sounded insane, I groaned inwardly as they all started laughing. I should have anticipated this question and had a suitable answer ready in the bag.

Mel gained control first trying to treat my answer somewhat seriously.

You a writer or somethin’?

Or something, I muttered, a flaming blush stealing up my cheeks. It wasn’t a total lie. As a fact-checker, I often had to rewrite entire paragraphs of stories before they were published. Also, I’d had an intense desire to try my hand at writing books — biographies, that sort of thing.

Feeling the stress rising, I once again tried to redirect the conversation. I asked Mel the first thing that came to mind.

What about you, Melissa?

Mel ignored Brad as he started mocking my use of her full name.

No one calls me that — it’s Mel, she said looking at me. In the background, Brad was elongating her name like the hiss of a snake.

Sorry, I answered, sure that I’d somehow managed to alienate myself from them all in just the few hours. I only had one hundred and forty three hours left to go…

Forget it, Mel answered, slapping Brad on the back of his head to shut him up then turned back to me. Me, I own a coffee shop down in Houston. Like most Texans, she emphasized the beginning syllable of the city, sounding like a football coach. Well, a chain of ‘em, actually.

"I mean, why did you register with Real War Inc.?"

For the first time since the bus ride began, silence filled the vehicle. Somehow I’d made a terrible mistake in asking that question. Brad and Nick both turned to look out the windows and Tanya, after leveling a stare at me, followed suit.

I muttered never mind but it was already too late. Still, Mel answered.

I’ve got my reasons.

Okay. I answered quickly, wanting to show her I was sorry for disrupting the conversation.

I gave an apologetic smile and decided that I should probably just shut up and turn back to the window where I could mentally berate myself as I’d been doing for the past four hours. My reflection stared back at me. Oh yeah, I was intimidating, I thought sarcastically as I examined my chin-length mousy brown hair pinned up at the sides, straight bangs skimming my dark eyebrows, which hovered over my grey eyes like birds wings. Dainty, just like the rest of me, I thought with disgust. Why hadn’t I ever noticed how this hairstyle emphasized my eyes, making them look large and frightened, and made the sharp angles of my face appear more severe and breakable? My skin was so pale, like I, too, had become a ghost when my brother had died, giving me an otherworldly appearance. I knew without looking down at my midge-sized stature that I appeared puny next to Mel’s solid strength.

Got maybe an hour left, Mel spoke companionably as though nothing had happened.

Grasping for something innocuous to reply, I looked through the window instead of against it and gained inspiration from the scenic landscape.

It’s really beautiful out here.

And it truly was. Although my native New York skyscrapers were mountains of stone, nothing could rival the sharp angles and jutting peaks of the Rockies that filled the bus windows now. The light was different here, too: it was either light with brilliant sunshine or dark with deep shadows — totally unlike the haze of uncertain radiance back in the city. But the trees stunned me most. Huge evergreens towered over the road like giant sentries, blocking the light and diffracting it, giving the landscape a surreal appearance.

Ain’t no Panhandle, but those spruce trees sure are pretty, Mel commented absently.

Actually, those trees are ponderosa pines, I answered absently, taken with the landscape. They’re a good indication that we’re in the montane ecozone, up around 8,000 feet. Once we cross over into the subalpine region, that’s where we’ll see spruce — Engelmann spruce — and subalpine fir... My words tumbled to a halt when I looked back from the window and noticed the bemused expression on everyone’s faces.

I’m a fact-checker, I stammered, as though that would offer some reason for my foray into geekdom. I silently reprimanded myself and swore not to do it again. But the trouble was I just couldn’t seem to help it. I had so much information packed into my brain and so much of it was interesting that I just had to share it.

I craved facts. There was nothing I loved better than a clear, concise answer to the world’s puzzlers. I wasn’t all that interested in philosophy or the esoteric — the unanswerable questions. It’s not that they didn’t have answers but we as humans are obviously not at a point where we can understand them yet, so why waste your time trying to figure them out? I liked questions that had solid answers. Like why was pink lemonade pink (it was made from yellow lemons after all), or do porcupines shoot their quills at their attackers, or what is Earth’s exact distance from the sun?

Seems we’ve got us a Cliff Clavin here, Nick joked.

Desperate to redirect the present focus, I soldiered on.

So, are you the leader of our squadron, Tanya?

No, I’m second in command, she answered before Brad could jump in.

You mean, you don’t know who’s honcho? He asked with incredulity. We’ve only got ourselves the finest man in charge in the game.

I looked at Nick questioningly, making Mel laugh.

Not Nick. His name is Sam Hennesey.

You mean there are more people in your squadron?

Squad, Mel corrected softly, taking pity on the newbie, "And yes, in Real War Inc. there are six to a squad, including you. This is your squad now, too."

Her words, and the proffered olive branch, warmed me.

I remembered the army units from my research. I knew that the basic army unit was called a Fire team and was comprised of four people: the team leader, rifleman, automatic rifleman and grenadier. A squad was two teams melded together, usually of nine to ten soldiers. However, in Real War Inc., they merged the honcho with one of the other basic requirements so each fire team only had three, thus a squad of six.

The Nines-Ones are the best out there, sweetheart, Brad broke arrogantly into my mental cataloguing of information before yelling a classic military "Who-ya!"

Number one, three years running, Nick confirmed.

And number four around the corner! Mel yelled, knocking her gloved fist against Brad’s and Nick’s.

I was split between being caught up in the adrenaline hike and terrified that I would mess this up for everyone. No wonder they’d looked disappointed when they’d seen me. They had a record to keep.

It’s all because of Sam, Tanya explained as the other three cheered.

He’s that good?

The best, Tanya confirmed seriously. He’s a Green Beret.

Wow. I answered, not sure if I was impressed or terrified. I was going to be spending six days in the wilderness with a Green Beret, someone who had to be insanely aggressive if he needed to participate in war not only for his job but also his off-time. An immediate image of Brad but bigger, louder (if that were at all possible) and crueler came to mind.

"He lives close to the Real War Inc. park. He’s meeting us there." Mel supplemented as though she thought I was wondering where he was as opposed to the anti-anxiety strategies I was currently performing in my mind. But all I could think now was, Of course he lives near the grounds of the park — I bet he